


This Must Be the Place

by nenson



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alpha Richie, Alpha Stan, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - High School, Biting, F/M, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, Kissing, M/M, OT7, Omega Eddie, Panic Attacks, Polyamory, Possessive Behavior, mentions of mpreg, the rest are up to your imagination ;)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 16:19:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13574274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nenson/pseuds/nenson
Summary: “You guys need to get out of here,” Eddie wheezes, head flopping back against the pillow, tossing to one side.  “I’m messed up, for real. I don’t want you getting it.” His voice starts to go gummy, wet-fresh with tears. “I—I got Bill sick, and I feel like such an asshole, you guys, I really didn’t mean to but after he came over he started to get all funny too—ouch!“Richie licks over the fresh indention on Eddie’s knuckle where he’d bitten it.“Spaghetti Man,” he says, “I love you, but you’re a fucking moron.”(ABO HS AU. Sophomore year starts off boring for the Losers Club, but their relationship gets exciting quick once its members start presenting.)





	This Must Be the Place

**Author's Note:**

> no idea what this is-- all i know is that there isn't enough in the tag for this OT7 and i wanted to add some more. low key in love with this weirdos
> 
> title taken from the talking heads song of the same name
> 
> unbeta'd

It punches them all right in the fucking face.

 _Pow_.

Fistful of flowers, fragrant and silky, even though it’s the fall and half of Derry’s gone orange with lengthening, black nights and talk of homecoming, Halloween. Sophomore year is drawing up to be a colossal disappointment after a vacation spent living out of each other’s pockets and garages, swapping spit and shooting the shit, as if there’s much of a difference between the two, _anyways_ —Richie-styled twang of sass, lemon-zest-curled on half a dozen lips as they proceeded to love together, savoring every minute spent in each other’s arms and not-forgetting the taste.  

The term’s fresh enough that they’ve still got August stuck between their teeth when Eddie goes down first. Of course he does, nose to the air, hypersensitive-hypochondriac with a deft sense of direction that always sort of freaks Stan out, makes Richie waggle his eyebrows and say: _lead on, Spaghetti Man_ , letting Eddie pull them hand-in-hand through the feminine hygiene aisle of Rite-Aid, or a crowd at the local public pool, or hell. But his mama’s still laid out over his life like a soggy cotton t-shirt, seeping right into everything, so when Eddie suddenly misses a Tuesday the week before Mike’s birthday, it doesn’t really raise any hackles.

 

“Where’s Eds?” Ben asks Bill when their fearless leader rolls up the front steps with Stan at one elbow, Mike on the other, and Bev coming up behind, eyes peeled for Bower’s gang. Before school is second-preferential beatdown time to afterwards, but they’re not cool yet (doesn’t help that nobody knows what the fuck is up with them, who is kissing who and why, the rumors about Bev curling nastier and the ones about the boys growing dangerous, even, in a small town like Derry). They’re getting bigger, though, slowly but surely, growing into themselves a bit, smaller gaps at the backs of their shoes and the collars of their shirts. None of them have presented, yet, but the summer had its progress. Richie’s started shimmying his bluejeans lower and lower on his hips to the half-delight-half-irritation of everyone else, depending on whose thumbs he’s hooking into his beltloops and crooning at, pressing up against the wall to kiss. Bill let Mike give him a fresh cut right before school started in his kitchen, brown hair on linoleum, the lulling of his skull into the scritch of thick, capable fingertips while the razor buzzed and jarred his teeth-- they all like running their hands over the shorn-short hair at the nape of his neck and shivering at the feeling.

Stan got a dorky sock tan that everyone refuses to stop giving him shit about. Ben shot up three inches. Bev boob’s got bigger ( _Beep-beep, Richie_ ).

“Dunno. He d-didn’t walk to school with you?”

Bill sweeps his knuckles across the inside of Ben’s wrist, gently knocking their summer-bodies together while the others stand guard and witness.

“Nope.” Ben pops the ‘p’ and swings Bill under his arm—he fits there easy as a dream, now, with all this new height-- as they walk through the big, red metal doors of purgatory, the rest in tow.

“Huh.”

“It’s probably his mom again,” Bev supplies.

“Did somebody say _Eddie’s mom?”_ Richie’s voice busts in out of nowhere, aka C-hall, where he was serving a zero-period detention for prrrrobably being the one who scribbled butts all over the PE teacher’s door with shower soap last week, which nobody but Richie found fucking hysterical, _ipso facto_ it was him.

 

So: Tuesday is chill. They notice Eddie’s gone, of course, but it doesn’t mean anything much at this point.

By Friday afternoon, things are getting a little freaky.

 

“I’m g-gonna head over there,” Bill says after class gets out. Picnic bench under the big old oak tree by the basketball court; the usual hangout.

“He probably just ‘has the flu’, or something,” Stan supplies, letting Richie tangle their legs under tabletop, scuff-heel to slender ankle. “ _Ouch_ , Tozier.” Richie just makes kissy faces at him.

Bill props his head into his hands. “Aren’t you w-worried too? Even a little?” Their boy hasn’t been answering any calls, not even his mom picking up to tell the Losers to fuck off in her own suburban white mom way. Stan’s silence is enough; this is weird, and they all know it. Something has been starting to grow tense between them all since the summer, like a stretched-taught rubber band pulled between thumb and forefinger, loaded to fly up in their faces, _thwap_!

Bill slides his backpack over one shoulder and stands, ambling over to where Silver gleams like a legend in the bike rack, wheeling her out. Swings a leg over and plants his feet either side of the pedals. Bike’s huge, like a boat, like a horse, and his body is just now stretching to accommodate the size of it.

“Tell us if he’s okay?” Bev asks, listing into Mike’s shoulder. “Or, yanno, dead?”

Richie just crosses his arms. “Sargent Stanley expects a full report on his desk when you get back, soldier. Typed bulletpoints n’ shit.”

Bill rips off a smart salute, pushes off.

They watch him go, and it feels like the beginning of something, a hazy shape, felt out in the dark by touch alone.

 

Radio fucking silence from Bill.

Afternoon stretches to late afternoon stretches into purple, sleepy evening, and through a few hesitant calls the remaining Losers figure out that they know precisely nothing about what the hell is going on. Bev phones in: no response from the Denbroughs. Stan calls Richie to tell him that they’re going to meet outside Ben’s house in half an hour, be there, which means serious shit because Stan isn’t likely to set aside his geometry homework for anything less than a major emergency. Richie, on his part, sounds like he’s champing to skin something already on the other end of the line; shows up amber-dipped under the streetlamp with an old swiss army knife tucked into his sock, puffy jacket with pockets full of who-knows-what, eyes crazy. Big Bill _and_ Eds. Not one funnybone left in his body, for once, all their minds bee-lined, pulsing on the same terrible thought.

_What if IT--_

Stan has two walkie-talkies from Scouts, big clunky black boxes that might land a sizeable goose-egg on someone’s noggin if swung correctly, and he doles the second one out to Mike, tucking the first in his satchel.

“You take Bev and Ben and go to Bill’s, see if he’s there. I’m taking Richie to Eddie’s place.” He’s in all dark clothes, with _gloves_ , which looks a little goofy, but also somehow makes the situation more scary, like he’s a criminal preparing to break into Eddie’s house. A joke about stealing Eddie’s lil achey-breaky heart dies in Richie’s mouth. They’ve done worse, for the sake of each other, and clearly, they’re prepared to _worse_ again; the lack of a smart _Yessir, Sarge_ , or some comment about _Stan the Man_ is disarming, and the smack of Bev’s gum and the brisk whistle of the wind fill the silence. They stand there for a moment, skinny and shivering, domestic weapons wielded with too much finesse for the hands of high school kids; no, they haven’t forgotten. Not one second of it.

 

A bat flaps overhead from one telephone pole to another. They hop on their bikes and make like bananas, or popsicle stands, and get the fuck out of there.

 

Richie watches the light from the streetlamps clip across the back of Stan’s dark jacket as they coast down the route they could bike in their sleep, left turn then right, blue-yellow-blue-yellow-blue. He prays and prays to the timing of the tick of the spokes, and even if it’s to nobody in particular, he thinks it helps.

 

 

Eddie’s house; squat red-brick ranch-style thing with a landscape job that started out thoughtful and sort of meandered into unkempt over the years, too much work to maintain for a single mother and a son she wouldn’t let outside for long if she could help it— _he’s allergic to the grass, you know. Hayfever_. Not to mention the sunburn.

Stan and Richie ditch their bikes in a bush a few doors down, then creep like bandits behind an arbor vitae hedge until they’ve circled around to the back of the row, where the fences are low and crumbly and easy-ish for them to circumnavigate; within seconds, Richie’s scraped a knee on a loose nail, and Stan has mud all over his pristine tennis shoes. One of the neighbors has their curtains open and they can see clear into the livingroom as they slink by: a paunchy beer belly rising and falling with sleep on the couch, _The Price Is Right_ reruns blaring blue from the oversized TV set. Somebody wins something, and the light makes Stan’s blonde hair look white for a second. They squeeze beneath a row of picket and end up crouched in knee-high grass, the thick ribbon kind with edges that’ll slice your fingertips right open, looking across the backyard to Eddie’s room (far left, flowery curtains his mom picked out that even Ben admits are pretty fuckin’ girly, dude). The night is dark and quiet as a pocket, save for the rustle of half-turned leaves, the whispering grass, and Richie’s muttering.

_If she’s done something to him I’m gonna kill her, I swear to fucking God, psycho bitch--_

“ _Shut up!”_ Stan whispers.

Richie cusses again, then obliges. Stan can hear his heart pounding even through the thick coat that’s full of knives. He reaches out in the dark, squeezing his lax and sweaty palm for one hot moment, then proceeds.

 

The little ill-fitting lip at the bottom of Eddie’s window is there, as always, even in dreams, and Stan’s fingers are well acquainted with the feeling of slipping into the crack in preparation of mischief. They’d discovered it in second grade and it’s been Eddie’s second-best kept secret ever since. He can tell Richie’s holding his breath beside him as he lifts the thing open with a smooth hiss, shoes already starting to sink into the furrow of overgrown loam that sits right next to the house, afraid to make a peep. Afraid of what they’ll find. The window gapes open like a black-hole-maw, making the curtains flutter a little, framing the nothing behind them. He motions for his friend to go over the sill with a jerk of his chin. Richie doesn’t have to be asked twice.

Watching a young man who’s over six feet tall and at least eighty percent gangle fold himself through a window frame is a pretty funny sight, or it would be, if he could see more than garbled shadow. Stan slides in afterwards. He pitches headfirst into the blackness via the heavy counterweight of his bag, and nearly eats shit on the way down, saved only by grabbing a handful of Richie’s coat.

“Hey!”

“ _Shhhh_.”

If it was night outside, Eddie’s room is jet-black, the kind of hot darkness you’d find inside of a closed mouth. One short stint of orange wire floating a few feet away demarcates the crack at the bottom of a doorjamb, and Stan wills his heart to stop thumping so loudly, lest it give them away (Mrs. K has a preternatural sixth sense for boys up to no good, some eyes on the back of her head type shit).

But the smell. It’s incredible; the space is jam-packed with it, crammed to brimming with a rich, unnamable scent that Stan can’t describe as anything other than—mouthwatering? It clots on the back of his tongue like sweet, heavy cream, like when his mom cuts fresh heaps of roses from the bushes in their backyard and leaves them on the kitchen table for Stan to secretly pluck the petals and rub, thumb to forefinger. Like chlorine on wet skin in the sun, something that he aches to nibble, rasp up with his tongue. He feels his dick getting hard in his pants.

“Richie?” he hazards, mouth dry, reaching out to grasp at where he thinks his friend’s wrist might be. “Do you—“

“Uh-huh.” _I smell it_.

Their eyes are adjusting, now, and they can see the hazy shape of Eddie’s bed and the boy himself laying on it.

“Eddie?” Richie stage-whispers.

The Eddie-shaped lump flops over, groans. They can see, now, that he’s down to his little Y-fronts, and his white belly glows in the moonlight, all the covers bunched at the foot of his bed like he’s way, way too hot. _Fuck. Maybe he really just does have the flu._ Stan thinks for one terrible second that they’ve just busted in uninvited to make their feverish friend all the more miserable.

“Eddie?” Richie tries again, moving closer while Stan tries to make a grab for his coatsleeve.

“Richie, no—“

“Hunh?” comes a quavering little moan from the sheets. Richie is on him in seconds, bony hand effortlessly spanning the near-width of Eddie’s bare stomach as he half-kneels, half crouches over him, mattress bowing under his weight. Stan is helpless to follow.

 _Oh, Eddie._ Their boy’s bangs are pasted to his forehead with sweat, already too long since the last time his mom cut them, dark eyebrows steepled in the middle in the textbook worried Eddie moue. And holy _crap_ does he smell good; Eddie’s kissable on any given day but Stan wants to stick his nose in his armpits for some reason, drink from the sweaty hollow of his neck, lick his cheeks, get as close to the smell as his body will let him. He settles for resting a hand on his sternum instead, palm to flutter, skin to glove.

Eddie’s in a tizzy, now fully awake. “What’re you guys—“ he pauses to gulp down spit “---why’re you here?” And quickly on the heels of that: “My mom’s gonna find out!” His narrow chest is starting to rise and fall in rapid little spooked-animal breaths, a signal that Richie and Stan are well versed in: panic. He’s already having trouble breathing through the fever, and he sounds congested as hell, maybe even bordering on an asthma attack.

Stan, being Stan, strongarms the situation right away.

“Where’s your inhaler?” he asks quietly, Richie’s hand coming to lapse over his where it lays on Eddie’s chest, as if the two of them can will his stupid, lovely little body to just _breathe_ by touch alone. Press the breath right into him; the weird sickness right out.

“Drawer,” Eddie gasps, and Stan is already reaching to the little bedside table and yanking open said drawer to get his hand on the L-shaped piece of plastic that’s as much a fixture of their friend as his skinny legs, his eyes, his laugh. He brings it to Eddie’s lips and pumps for him, two sets of hands cupped around it, one big one little, with Richie making sure his breaths are deep and even down below.

“Shhhh, Eds,” Richie whispers, once Eddie’s gone through a few relatively healthy cycles, hand still clamped in hand. “We just had to make sure you were alive.”

“You guys need to get out of here,” Eddie wheezes, head flopping back against the pillow, tossing to one side. “I’m messed up, for real. I don’t want you getting it.” His voice starts to go gummy, wet-fresh with tears. “I—I got Bill sick, and I feel like such an asshole, you guys, I really didn’t mean to but after he came over he started to get all funny too— _ouch!“_

Richie licks over the fresh indention on Eddie’s knuckle where he’d bitten it.

“Spaghetti Man,” he says, “I love you, but you’re a fucking moron.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not sick. I think—you’re an omega.”

_Oh._

 

Stan is personally offended, for a second, that _Trashmouth Tozier_ figured it out before he did; a bright spike of stuck-up straight-A student indignation, not used to feeling of getting the answer wrong, the rude jerk of a rug yanked out from under his feet when he sees the red slashes on corrected papers. Of course. Of _course_ , the smell, the fever, the way Stan’s starting to ache and pine in ways it shouldn’t for Eddie’s sick little body; it’s a really simple fucking equation, Uris, and you didn’t even think to put two and two together.

 

“Earth to Eds,” Richie says, waving a hand in front of his face. “Your mom didn’t tell you?”

Eddie still seems a page or two behind. “That I’m a…what?”

“O-me-ga, idiot. You know, as in alphas and omegas?”

“S-she just said I had the flu.” The words are whimpered, low and ashamed. Male omega: Eddie thinks he’d rather die. His mom probably wants to deny the whole thing completely, planning to palm off the symptoms to sickness then dope her son up on suppressants and whatever other shit to make him seem like a plainscented beta

“That _bitch_.”

Stan’s wondering who said it until he realizes it’s literally him-- something in the tone is so bone-deep protective that he shivers, subvocals playing on some unknown frequency that resonates in his chest, something primal, something that has big teeth. Wires are crossing, ugly puberty hormones doubling up with this new heat that’s coming up over the back of his neck and his scalp like a hood, all his pores opening, body screaming _alive alive alive_ where he grips Eddie’s chest like deliverance. Secondary gender, Stan thinks dizzily, words printed in his brain from a textbook he’d found in a secretive corner of the library, looking for bio texts and finding something else. Derry High’s sex ed is non-existent at best, and these things tend to get generally lumped into the category of missing children and killer clowns; i.e, they’re shuffled into the dark corners of the town’s collective memory and forgotten, gone all tacit and unmentioned.  

The third part of the equation slides neatly into place: Stanley Uris is blooming into his alphahood, right here in the middle of Eddie’s blue-is-for-boys painted bedroom that still has all his science fair trophies up on the walls, and it feels _right_. He moves closer to Eddie, ready to snap up all the sounds right from that pink little mouth, drink them straight from the tap, even though he knows that logically he should be halfway out the window by now and running towards home.

“Woah, Stan-man, leave room for Jesus,” Richie huffs, but when Stan looks over, his cheeks are stained with an incriminating flush, sweat-sheen on cupid’s bow, eyes sparking behind those dweeby glasses he still wears. It strikes Stan that this is fucking his friend up just as much, maybe more-- his hindbrain does some weird sizing-up thing for a second where he’s trying to assess if Richie’s a threat, if he’s gonna take his omega way from him, before logic of familiarity beats it back: the collar of Richie’s chewed up coat, his long spindle-bone fingers with crud lined under the fingernails, the way his posture slopes into an endearingly crooked curve when he tries his best to stand up straight. The part of Stan’s heart that long ago chipped off and buried itself in Richie Tozier—he likes to think of how his heart has been thoroughly divvied up amongst the Loser’s club, the selflessness and safety of it—warms at a sudden epiphany, instead:

Two alphas. Brothers, more than that, blood pushing through them to the same sort of synched rhythm that it did before but _better_.

“You’re— one too?” Stan asks, not really sure how to phrase the question. He feels earnest and young as he did in Kindergarten, asking the boy with tangled dark hair, plopped next to him on the carpet over Lincoln Logs: _Do you wanna be friends?_

Richie palms his cock, hand groping lazily at his half-hard dick as if in a dream. “I think I really wanna get Eddie fucking pregnant right now so…. Yes?”

Oh, nasty. Stan almost thinks he’s joking for a moment before he feels his own cock pulse at the idea, at the delicious _possibility_ that hadn’t even occurred to him, despite the fact that just thinking the words _knock Eddie up_ should be ridiculous; now he can’t stop repeating them like a mantra, guiding him through the incense-haze of heat scent. Fuck. This is bad.

“Guys…” Eddie says, starting to squirm under the attention. The smell gets impossibly stronger.

“Oh, shit,” says Richie. “Are you getting, uh, wet… down there?” Stan sort of wants to clock him again, annoyed that he knows too much about how Omega’s bodies work when he hasn’t even read any books on it. Just random Richie knowledge, the same way he knows the names of all the counties in Alabama for some reason, odd bitesized tidbits of factoid Stan thinks he just collects by osmosis, or luck. Or porn.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, mortified, but bends his knees up towards his chest, opening gently like a shy sea-creature. Between his folded legs sits a dark stripe up the crack of his washed-thin undies, once white but now stained deep blue in the night. He’s definitely wet; it’s absolutely the hottest thing that Stan has seen in his entire life.

“Oh my god,” Richie says, voice tiny and awed. His hands go right to Eddie’s thighs, trying to manhandle them further open, and Stan’s cock jumps again at the little squeak Eddie makes in response.

_We are so screwed._

They’ve done a little messing around, sure, orgasms unavoidable when there’re six other hot mouths to press against your body and six sets of hands to snake a hand between your legs and stroke. Watching _Top Gun_ in a puppy pile on the couch and rubbing over clothes, creamed undies in jeans with the fly unzipped and teeth splayed open around curious hands. Tipsy humping, fingers slick with curiosity. But never—this.

Never three exposed nerve endings, grating against each other with pure, white-hot feral friction.

Eddie’s fingers are starting to probe around the edge of his tighty whities, flirting at the idea of dipping into his wetness with glazed-over eyes, and Stan knows that if they don’t leave now, they never will.

“Rich, we can’t. This could get really, really bad.” Teen pregnancy headlines blare in his forebrain, stories about teenaged knot-slut omegas dropping out to become barefoot and pregnant for the rest of their lives, living for their alpha’s cock. Condoms are probably scarce in a household where Eddie’s mom still trims his fingernails, and they can’t risk it. They just can’t.

“Hunh?” Richie mumbles, too busy watching and rubbing his hands up and down the soft insides of Eddie’s thighs to give a care about anything else.

Stan falls onto Richie, height almost leveled to his and limbs _almost_ as long, and pulls him _away_ , chin banging into shoulder and hands squeezing into biceps. There’s a tousle, for a moment, scrabble of jackets and the real danger of getting a pointy-ass elbow somewhere painful.

“ _Stop it.”_ Stan hisses, constricting tight, and for once, Richie does. “Do you want his mom to wake up?” A shake of shaggy black curls. Richie’s hair smells like the cold October air outside. “Do you want to hurt him?” Another shake, and Stan releases him. Richie stays obediently still and just moans with the unfairness of it all, zombie-out with arousal, dick clearly trying to push its way out of his jeans.

Eddie looks from Stan, to Richie, then gives a little sob, absolutely heartbroken that he won’t be getting either of their cocks tonight.

“Shh, Eddie. Soon,” Stan whispers. “Soon. But not tonight.” He can feel a vein throbbing in his forehead with the force of keeping his cool, threatening to bust, trembling on the tenuous edge of flinging himself fully into the baying pit of his arousal and dizziness and _need_. But he’s Stanley Uris. He’ll risk the aneurism.

 

 

They only make it like fifteen feet from Eddie’s back porch before Stan’s kissing Richie. Or, it’s generous to call it kissing; the way Stan snags a hand in the collar of Richie’s coat and draws him in is closer to a bite, a painful clash of teeth and spit hastily crammed at an awkward angle. Cheek-to-cheek swerved to lip-on-lip with only the barest hint of finesse as they run away from Eddie and into the darkness. They tumble to the grass in a way that can’t be quiet, right smack dab in the middle of dangerous territory, but both of them have eclipsed the horizon of giving a damn long ago, frankly. Stan’s got Richie’s thighs pinned beneath his butt and starts going for his fly, control evaporated and the prospect of getting off absolutely foregrounded above all else. He pulls the glove off his right hand with his teeth, spits it to the side, which Richie is evidently really into.

“ _Fuck_ , Stan.”

He jerks Richie’s jeans down his skinny hips, bird-bones fluted and slender in the dapple of the moon, and his sticky briefs come right after. There’s so much precum that Stan’s jittery grip almost slips right off him as he attempts to jerk Richie off and get out of his own jeans at the same time. Richie grunts and goes to work on the zipper, helping him, and something about that makes Stan’s heart swell three sizes too big. Then he’s free; the cold air feels weird on his dick. He rolls them over and his friend goes willingly, some ancient itch to manhandle Richie Tozier and finally get him to _be quiet_ scratched to satisfaction. They’re both so wet that it’s easy for Stan to take his dick in hand, push between Richie’s thighs, and fuck. Sloppy, sweet. Alpha on alpha, but teenager on teenager just as much, filthy in the dirt like squirming animals.

Somewhere in the chaos Richie manages to cram a hand between their heaving bellies to get a hand on his own dick, and the trashmouth comes back with a vengeance.

“You pretending I’m Eds, Stan-man?” he gasps. Stan moans into Richie’s shoulder, mouth full of sweaty cotton. “Gonna knot me?”

“Yeah, fuck yeah,” Stan chants mindlessly, already so fucking gone with it, hips snapping and stuttering with no rhythm at all.

“Please, Stan,” Richie taunts in a bad knockoff of Eddie’s voice, all wheedling porno-moan. “Fuck me on your fat fucking Jew dick, I want it _so_ bad.” It’s still hot and Stan hates it.

“Beep-beep, Richie,” he growls, mouth to crook of neck.

“C’mon, Daddy, make me fucking come—“

Stan fucks up brutally, grabbing Richie’s ass for purchase. “Then be a good bitch and _shut up_.”

“Fuck!” Richie’s laughing, breathless, and then complies, scorching hot wetness flooding between their two bodies. _Bill_. Stan just thinks he hears Richie moan it over the pound of blood in his ears, he’s not sure, but knows for certain that it’s too much. Whiplash-arousal. He groans like he’s been punched, struck dead by the idea of what's happening to Big Bill, what the other four of his perfect parts must be doing at the Denborough house, _right at this waking moment_ —

His orgasm hits from a deep, primal place in his pelvis, whiteout bliss-blind goodness that blows past anything he’s had in months. He grabs Richie’s thighs with a deathgrip to squeeze around the base of his dick where it's swelling up—his knot, fuck—so that he can sorta-kinda pretend he’s really locking with Eddie, humping with little jerks of his hips, pumping him full of his come. His chin drops in exhaustion and sees that Richie has his own bulge knot white-knuckled in his hand, still pulsing hot between their two bodies. They’re both just, _still coming_. This new biology is bizarre; Stan needs to study up.

 

Richie lets out another bark of laughter, body skinny and humming and feeling full-up with summer. Stan’s always bewitched by him when he’s like this, tangled in bad-boy sex appeal and loose-quick mischief, dripping dark angles, sleaze. Hard to look away from. Richie’s head drops back to the ground with a _thump_ and a lazy smile. “Holy fuck, Stan-Man. At least wine and dine me first, next time.” Stan drops to his forearms and clumsily seals his lips over his friend’s to shut him up for real; there’s something different and unnamable to the taste of his mouth, now, a sweetness, and he needs to perform a few more case studies before he can determine precisely what it is.

 

Fuck boring. Sophmore year is going to be one of the most interesting years for the Loser’s Club on record, bar none.


End file.
